


The Spirit of Things

by Glass_Onion



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23829067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glass_Onion/pseuds/Glass_Onion
Summary: Uncle Iroh somehow convinces Zuko that participating in a small music festival will improve low morale. Not that far away, a bald monk makes a similar argument.
Relationships: Aang & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Katara & Zuko (Avatar), Sokka & Zuko (Avatar), The Gaang & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 447





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I always like reading post-Blue Spirit stories and there have never been enough in this world, so I'll add this to the pile. As a heads up, first couple chapters focus mostly on Iroh & Zuko. As a further heads up, it's all nonsense.

When Zuko wakes, he does so to the clanking noises of the ship’s engines. He remembers smelly ointments and the coarse blinding embrace of too-many bandages, remembers soft pitying whispers, remembers someone telling him (a servant, maybe, not Father) that he was due to sail until he recovered the Avatar and, with it, his honor. They said he was going to leave in the morning. Did he already leave? He should have- he should have said goodbye. He sweats under his thin sheets, unsure when or how he fell asleep, unable to discern feverish flesh from burned skin. Someone was just here, weren’t they? They’d murmured that the tallest mountains grow from the seeds of shaken earth. A smaller voice had muttered that he’s never been so stupid in his whole life. The rest could be hallucinations; this rings true.

Zuko raises a hand to his face but doesn’t touch; he can feel the heat lingering there. 

Something like a screaming cat-monkey joins the clanking engines. This is his first hint. Then he notices that the breeze through the open porthole is chillier than any near Caldera. The stars through it are the ones he’d studied absentmindedly in a class that was never meant to matter. The heat dims and he lets his fingertips brush against long-calloused skin. He lets out a slow breath. It’s not Then. It’s Now. 

He sits forward and wrestles free of the tangled sheets, desperate for the cold to prickle his skin and wake him fully. Three years, he thinks, feeling foolish. Three years and he’s still waking up from the same nightmares- waking _up_ to the same nightmare.

He rolls his shoulders, grabs a robe to conceal the growing bruises, and stands. If Uncle’s music night is still at this particular level of volume-rich passion, it’s early. He might be able to snag something from the kitchen while everyone else is busy avoiding chores and endearing themselves to the Dragon of the West. Despite his confidence in this line of logic, Zuko still peeks warily into the hall before entering it.

He strides- certainly doesn’t _tiptoe_ , it’s his own ship- through the barren metal halls, mindful of any noise that isn’t a tsungi horn being abused. The kitchen is empty when he arrives, but there’s a pot of congealing congee on the stove. He scoops a bowlful and settles at a corner table. He warms the porridge slowly, keeping his breathing even. By the time the surface is pocked with bubbles, he feels warmer, too.

“We can prepare something a little heartier for you, Nephew.”

Zuko jolts, then feels stupid for doing so. Of course it’s only _Uncle._ Despite his lumbering heft, the man is uncannily quiet when he’s in the business of meddling. “This is fine,” he grumbles into the bowl.

“Once your belly is full,” continues the old man, wandering into the kitchen for what _must_ be his third helping. “-perhaps you will join us to nourish your hungry spirit.”

“My spirit has no appetite,” he mutters, hunching up his shoulders. “And that ‘music’ is _anything_ but restorative.” 

“Ah, it can sometimes lead to more dancing than my healers might like,” Uncle admits, dipping a ladle into the porridge. He swirls it around a little, his back to Zuko, before scooping it. “But dancing may not be so bad for someone of your age.”

“I don’t _want_ to dance.”

“That is perfectly acceptable,” Uncle assures, sitting across from him. Steam pours off of his bowl, and the old man inhales deeply. Zuko stabs at his own meal, annoyed. It’s only over-salted rice. “Simply playing can be of great benefit.” He takes his first bite, savoring it as if it is _worth_ savoring, even though Cook _ruined_ it. “I have always enjoyed your tsungi playing, Prince Zuko. I would enjoy hearing you play.”

“I don’t _want_ to play,” Zuko insists as he stands, ready to go back to his chambers.

Uncle picks at his rice, unperturbed. “You don’t want to finish your dinner?”

“I’m not hungry. You have it.”

“I am an old man, Prince Zuko, nourished for many years by good food and good music and good company. I do not need your congee. I do not really need _my_ congee. Please, sit.” 

Zuko scowls, but does. Maybe he can turn this conversation towards things that _matter._ “Where are we?”

“The Kitchen,” Uncle says, slurping.

" _Uncle._ "

“Off the coast of Bai Jiu. The Lieutenant assures me we will reach the port by morning- and not a moment too soon. We are in dire need of supplies.”

“We can’t afford to stay long,” Zuko comments, hesitantly taking another bite of congee. “The Avatar is still out there.”

 _Because of me_ , he doesn’t say. He also doesn’t rip his hair out and begin pacing.

“So he may be,” Uncle agrees, tone soft as if Zuko _has_ done these things. “But knowing he is out there if we have no fuel or food with which to chase him will do us very little good. Resupplying is necessary, Prince Zuko, but it will take time.” He strokes his beard absentmindedly as he considers his nephew. “Especially given the festival.”

Zuko scrapes the bottom of his bowl for one last clump of rice. “Festival?”

Uncle frowns. “We may have one or two more duck-quail eggs, if you would like a more filling meal. They _are_ heavily salted, but-”

“I don’t want Cook’s salted eggs,” Zuko snaps. “He already overcooked and over-salted the congee. He’d over-salt _seawater_.” 

“I am afraid he has the practical palette of a navy man,” Uncle admits regretfully, no doubt thinking of the palace meals he’d left behind- that Zuko had forced him to leave behind. “I only offer because that is not much food. You are still growing, Prince Zuko. A chestnut without fertile ground will only ever benefit soup.” 

“I don’t want your _proverbs_ , Uncle.” He stands and stalks towards the door, leaving his empty bowl where it sits. “And I already said I’m fine!” 

“Prince Zuko,” says Uncle.

He stops. He doesn’t look back. He waits, impatiently. 

There is a long pause. “Are you hurt?” 

“No,” he says, scowling, and he leaves before Uncle can stand and poke his bruises. That would only lead to questions ( _why does it look as if you were shot from a very far distance by the famed Yuyan Archers, Prince Zuko?)_ and answers _(I had to rescue the Avatar from the Fire Nation, Uncle, and it turns out I can’t even commit treason right)_ that he doesn’t feel much like entertaining.

He doesn’t bother checking whether the coast is clear when he storms into the hall. 

\--

When he can’t fall back asleep, Zuko heads to the deck to wait for suns and horizons. He ignores the glances of those on duty and stands ramrod straight beside the railing.

The air smells salty and his stomach rumbles.

It feels as if there’s only an hour or so until dawn. He considers meditating early, but quickly dismisses the idea. He should practice his forms. His firebending is always weaker without the sun, a vulnerability he needs to shore up if he ever intends to capture the Avatar for _good._ With his luck, their next encounter will be during a solar eclipse. 

Zuko moves through his katas, slowly at first and then with ferocious speed. Every time his focus slips from the forms, the Avatar’s face flashes through his mind, the naive question rings in his ears, and Zuko’s inner flame surges. He won’t fail again.

By the time the sun has risen, sweat stings Zuko’s eyes and his breathing is heavy. He settles into a meditative pose and closes his eyes.

“Ah, good morning, Prince Zuko,” says Uncle, as if they hadn’t spoken mere hours before. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Zuko doesn’t open his eyes. “Whatever.”

 _"Excellent_ ,” Uncle replies, and Zuko can hear the smile in his voice.

Though he can’t see Uncle, he feels his familiar heat mere feet away as the old man settles on the deck. There is minor shifting and then his breaths are even and steady. Zuko bites down frustrated jealousy and tries to focus harder on attaining inner peace. This tactic, as ever, doesn’t really work. 

“Slow your breaths, Nephew,” says Uncle. “You are not in a battle.” 

Zuko tries, he really does, but calm is beyond the horizon. Meditating with Uncle is a lot like practicing with Azula: he struggles and struggles and two feet away someone outdoes him effortlessly. The comparison only leads to cascading frustration.

“Perhaps it would be helpful to match my breaths,” Uncle suggests.

Zuko scowls and clambers to his feet. “I have better things to do than sit and _breathe_ , Uncle _._ ” He squints at the nearest officer. “How long until we reach the port?”

The faceplate remains deferentially static. “Less than an hour, sir.”

“Good. I’m going to my quarters to get ready. Anything we _can_ do before we arrive, I want it done. I don’t want to be in this peasant town any longer than I have to.” He stalks off the bridge with the fury of a bloodhound-tiger. In his haste, he misses the officer’s question: 

“Are we no longer participating in the festival?” 

“Ah, do not mind Prince Zuko,” replies another voice he doesn’t hear. “My nephew has not yet gotten into the spirit of things. Would you be so kind as to pack his tsungi horn for him? “ The voice smiles like a blue mask. “He will need it.” 

\--

When Zuko emerges from his room, he is horrified to discover that his crew has spent the entire time packing instruments and changing into comfortable clothes. Only a few stalwart souls stand in their posts fully-armored. They seem disappointed and a little jealous.

“Uncle!” Zuko storms to the railing where Uncle watches the horizon draw nearer. “What is the meaning of this?” His glower intensifies. “And what are you _wearing_?”

Uncle glances down at his neutral-colored clothes- with the _barest_ hints of red in their lining- and slumps. “Do you not like it?”

“It’s- why are you _wearing_ it? Where is your armor?”

“This is a neutral town, Prince Zuko,” Iroh says. “We have traded often on its shores and found nothing but kindness in its people.” He nods to the bitter soldiers dressed appropriately on the bow. “Our ship will be carefully monitored, but we need not be fully armored as we enjoy the festival.” He adds, winking, “It would only weigh us down when dancing.”

Zuko’s eyebrow twitches. “ _Festival?_ ” 

“Ah,” says Uncle, in the manner of someone just remembering something. Zuko isn’t fooled for a second. “Did I not mention?”

“What _festival_?”

“Today is the annual celebration of the spirits,” explains Uncle. “We are indeed very lucky our course was at last set so conveniently. Bai Jiu is famous for its masked festivities.”

“We came here to resupply,” Zuko grinds out.

“Indeed,” says Uncle. “Fortuitous.” 

“We are not here to play music and eat fire flakes!” Zuko practically hisses, waving a dismissive hand at the carefully-packed instruments. “We don’t have _time_ for that. We _have_ to catch the Avatar!”

“And to do _that_ ,” continues Uncle. “-we need supplies. But resupplying takes time. You need time, too, Prince Zuko. A moment of rest.”

“I’m _fine!_ ” Zuko shouts, like a fine person would.

“The crew needs a bit of respite as well,” Uncle says, quieter. “We have not taken even a moment’s rest since you discovered the Avatar. They are tired, tired in their _souls._ A day’s diversion will mean a month of great dedication.” 

Zuko wavers, glancing at the crew. He swears they look more dejected than before, and at least a few of those yawns are fake, but-

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine! You can go to this stupid festival! But the _minute_ we’re finished resupplying, we leave.” 

“Of course,” Uncle agrees readily. “Though,” he adds under his breath. “With the town itself diverted, it may take longer than usual to procure all of the needed goods-”

Zuko groan-shouts and stalks back to his room. 

The armor _is_ heavy.

\--

They arrive at port less than ten minutes later. Uncle speaks to the portmaster, succeeds in making her giggle twice, and wanders back to Zuko with a pleased smile on his face.

“I may be seeing her at the candle-lighting tonight,” he tells Zuko with a wink.

“We won’t be here that late,” Zuko dismisses. “Even if they _are_ delayed.” He glances towards the shops. “I’m going to get started.”

“Prince Zuko,” Uncle chides, gently getting in his way. “There will be bargaining involved.”

Zuko crosses his arms. “So?”

“So send your seasoned sailors,” he suggests. “They will get the best goods for the best prices.” 

“I can do that,” Zuko insists, scowling.

“They know who you are,” Iroh counters. “And they will charge the price they believe a Prince should pay.”

Zuko shifts, ceding the point. Father’s allowance has gotten lower and lower since he first left, and he can hardly afford the prices they demand _without_ knowing he’s a prince. He resumes scowling. “You’re just trying to get _me_ to go to that stupid festival.”

“Perhaps,” Uncle allows, smiling again. He walks towards the town without looking back, just _expecting_ Zuko to follow. “But I am not wrong.”

Zuko follows.

“Now,” says Uncle. “We purchase the masks.”

“Masks,” Zuko repeats, heart suddenly pounding. Does Uncle know? “What masks?”

“For the festival,” Uncle reminds him. “As I said, it is a masked affair. No one knows who anyone is beneath their mask- and anyone at all might be a spirit visiting for a day of pleasure and relaxation.” He smiles back at Zuko. “Even the _spirits_ enjoy vacations now and then.” 

Zuko rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “I’m not wearing a mask.”

“Ah, Prince Zuko, it is part of the fun. The spirits will only talk to you if you wear a mask!”

“Maybe I don’t want to talk to _them_.” 

“Zuko,” Iroh chastises, and Zuko’s cheeks warm under the slight admonishment.

“Fine,” he mutters, in lieu of an apology. “I’ll wear a mask.” 

When they reach the first cart, Uncle looks like Azula did the day she discovered fur’s flammability. He chats happily with the owner, pointing out various masks and asking about their meanings and inspirations. When he doesn’t balk at price tags, the owner is happy to indulge every question and long-winded anecdote Uncle has at his disposal.

Zuko’s eyes linger momentarily on the blue spirit mask hanging in the back of the cart. It’s shoddily made, its smile is not-on-purpose crooked, and its colors are completely wrong. Despite all of this, however, it seems to watch him keenly. He avoids its gaze and reviews the other options.

While many of the masks are representations of spirits or popular characters, his choice is a simple symmetrical face. Its mouth is open in a shocked gape, revealing his own lips, but the rest of his head, even his phoenix plume, is obscured. Uncle picks the stupidest mask there is, some chortling caterpillar-monkey, and seems delighted. 

“Enjoy the festival!” Calls the shopkeep as they make their way towards the heart of town. Zuko can already hear the low thrum of conversation, can smell crackling oil and incense, can feel the heat of hundreds of strangers packed together as he approaches, unarmed and fidgeting in a stupid mask.

“Thank you!” Uncle shouts back. “We will!”

Zuko should have just stayed on the ship. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was wondering, I definitely considered Battle of the Banned(s) as a title


	2. Chapter 2

When they enter the festival proper, Zuko expects an immediate response. There’s  _ always  _ a response. There are always cold looks and insults muttered low enough to ignore and mothers pulling back their children. Zuko doesn’t like it, but he’s grown used to it. He isn’t in the Fire Nation anymore; he won’t expect kindness from his  _ enemies.  _ So, yes, even in casual garb with an identity-concealing mask, he’d expected them to know it was  _ him _ , expected tension and hatred and war-fed malice. 

Zuko was not expecting  _ this.  _

They’re not glaring or whispering...they’re not even  _ glancing  _ at him. Even in the friendliest of ports in the most neutral of territories, there are  _ always  _ glances. Even on the ship, sometimes, when he’s least expecting it, there’s a  _ look _ . As he and Uncle pass through the throng of people, Zuko is hyper aware of the mask. He knows what they see and it isn’t him.

“Do you  _ smell  _ that?” Uncle asks, sniffing loudly.

“How can you smell  _ anything _ through that mask?” Zuko wonders annoyedly. “How are you even going to eat?”

“ _ Carefully _ ,” Uncle answers, and he sounds happier than he has in months. 

Zuko rolls his eyes but follows the old man to the food vendor. Resupplying will take a few hours; giving Uncle an afternoon is tolerable. He reviews the food options. As the town thrives in trade, there’s a surprising array. Zuko tries to find something familiar, something that would taste like the festivals at home, but there’s little from the Fire Nation available. What he  _ does  _ see is obviously burnt. While frustrating, it’s a common error; other cultures seem to think Fire Nation fare is just meat plus too much fire. 

His stomach grumbles unhappily.

Despite the minor disappointment, anything is better than Cook’s food. Zuko buys enough dumplings to feed a Komodo-Rhino and chews them absentmindedly as Uncle hems and haws over six different options. He decides to sample them all, and leaves the starry-eyed vendor with a promise that he will return soon. 

There is an Earthbending show in the center of town, and they settle near the back of the crowd to watch. A ring of drummers surround the make-shift stage, banging a ferocious beat as the benders perform. They kick jagged stones at each other, fall back into the dirt and reappear elsewhere, stomp their heels against the earth until it cracks- all to the beat of the primal rhythm. Zuko observes carefully, calculating the ways in which he could defend himself against the dancers if need be. In terms of  _ offense _ , he would just need to-

“Don’t forget to  _ watch _ , Nephew.”

“I  _ am  _ watching,” Zuko snaps. 

Uncle smiles beneath his askew mask and takes another bite of his zongzi. The dancers toss a boulder back and forth as if it were a leather ball as the drumming speeds up. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”

Zuko shrugs. “They’re not as good as the Flamethrowers.” 

Uncle tilts his head, acknowledging the words. “They are different.”

They watch as a huge pillar of stone brings the central Earthbender higher and higher; they watch as the bender plummets into a fresh chasm in the earth, bringing every other dancer down with them. The drumming stops.

The silence is complete as (almost) every audience member holds their breath and stares at the smooth stage. Uncle chews his crisp puffs as quietly as possible. Zuko waits impatiently for the grand reveal.

The benders suddenly leap down from the surrounding rooves, landing in a perfect bow.

The crowd roars.

Zuko rolls his eyes.

\--

“Now,” says Uncle, after they have visited a small tea shop. He replaces his mask perfectly after every sip. “They should be ready.”

Zuko squints at him suspiciously. “Who?”

“Our crew, of course.”

Zuko considers how optimistic he should be. “...with resupplying?”

“With unpacking, Nephew,” Uncle corrects, tone fondly chiding. “Let us see.” 

He leads Zuko away from the center of town, and the crowd slowly begins to thin. Zuko notes the fireworks stands, visited by only a few dozen masked children, and decides this area will probably be much more popular once it has begun to grow dark. This thought sparks another.

“How much longer do you plan on staying, Uncle?”

Uncle hums in a decidedly non-committal way. “We shall see how long the supplies take.”

“We have better places to be,” he reminds the old man, scowling.

“What could be better than a twilight stroll with a beautiful portmaster?” He glances at Zuko. “And I am certain you will find ways to entertain yourself as well, Nephew.” He tilts his head meaningfully at a passing gaggle of girls and pats Zuko’s shoulder. “What do you think?”

“I _think_ we’re here to supply the ship, not date peasants,” Zuko snaps, pulling away. 

“Ah, but trees provide shade  _ and  _ fruit.”

Zuko scowls. “Meaning?”

“You have time, Prince Zuko.” Iroh stops and looks him right in his fake face. “You can do both. Today is for  _ resting.  _ Please listen to your old Uncle just this once and try to find some  _ fun. _ ”

“My mission isn’t about finding  _fun_ ," Zuko argues, glaring. " It’s about finding the Avatar. About finding my  _ honor. _ ”

Uncle considers him, and Zuko wishes he could see his expression. With Father, the air always tasted like fresh ozone before something was going to happen. There isn’t anything like that with Uncle. There’s never any hint as to whether he’ll say something aimless or too perceptive. Whether he’s angry or disappointed. Zuko tries to peer through the small holes in the caterpillar-monkey's eyes, but they’re opaque from this side of the mask.

Then Uncle puts his hand on Zuko’s shoulder- when had he grown so tense?- and when he speaks, his tone is soft. “Just for today, Prince Zuko. You have always loved festivals. And you have always been a wonderful musician.”

“-musician?” Zuko repeats, confused. 

The chittering mask seems to smile broader. 

\--

It’s been a long time since Zuko even picked up the horn. Its brass is cool beneath his fingers, and it’s lighter than he remembered. He can’t recall the first time he ever tried it, but Mother always liked to listen to him play. Azula did too, when she was very little, too young to know that music is a waste of time. There would be picnics, just the three of them, at the courtyard in the heart of the palace. There was a little pond there- Zuko can see it so clearly if he closes his eyes- with pristine blue water. Every spring there was a new generation of turtleducks that learned to waddle by his music. He’d blow a sour note and they’d scatter; he’d keep the melody mellow and they’d one by one return. 

When she was old enough to know better, Azula burned the brass beneath his fingers. 

“I don’t know why you’re so upset,” she’d said, smirking as he immersed his fingers in the cool water. “Calluses are  _ pivotal  _ for stringed instruments. You aren’t only ever going to play  _ that  _ old thing, are you? Only  _ Mother  _ can bear to listen to that.” 

And soon, of course, even Mother couldn’t.

Uncle sometimes played music with Zuko, funny songs that made servants giggle behind their hands, but after Mother left, after Lu Ten- he grew distant. His music was soft and keening, the type one plays alone. Zuko never asked to join him. Father wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. 

Zuko presses his lips firmly around the mouthpiece and closes his eyes. He takes a slow breath through his nose, then blows. The sound is ringing, mournful, deep. He purses and the tone wanders upward. He wobbles between the two notes, relearning the basics, feeling a familiar and somehow comforting burn in his lungs, and then begins a simple children’s song. 

When he finishes and opens his eyes, Uncle’s mask is staring at him.

“That was beautiful, Prince Zuko,” he says softly, almost  _ sadly _ , like it hadn’t just been some random children’s lullaby.

“It wasn’t anything,” he retorts, preparing to set the instrument aside. “I haven’t played in years. I made a dozen mistakes.”

“It was beautiful,” Uncle repeats firmly, brooking no denial.

Zuko blushes and is glad for the mask. “Whatever,” he grumbles, shifting. “There. I’ve played.”

“You have  _ begun  _ to play,” Uncle corrects. 

Zuko frowns. “What?”

“You are part of the evening’s festivities,” Uncle tells him happily, as if it’s  _ good  _ news. “The crew was getting so  _ good  _ at music night, I rented space for them to show off their talents.” 

Zuko exhales slowly through his nose. When he smells burning wood, he cools his breaths and demands, tightly, “You  _ what _ ?”

“I sent the letter weeks ago,” Uncle confirms. “It is a most competitive market. I feared, of course, we would not arrive on time, but the seas were accommodating.” 

“You  _ what!? _ ” 

“Of course,” continues Uncle idly. “I feared we could miss it due to your absence last night. That reminds me-” The mask tilts. “What  _ did _ keep you from the ship for so very long?”

Zuko fumbles between the offensive and the defensive, eyes wide behind his mask. “I- what?”

“It must have been important,” mulls Uncle, fingers dragging along the chin of his mask as if stroking his beard. “Especially given how near we were to Agni-blessed soil...”

Zuko’s mouth is dry. “I went for a walk,” he says slowly. “I wanted time alone to think.”

“Ah, the solace of solitude. A medicine for many ails.” Uncle's mask tilts again. “As is music.”

They stare at each other. Zuko is aware he’s being manipulated, but he doesn’t know how much Uncle knows. If he continues the conversation, he’ll give up way too much information, just like he  _ always _ does, and it will be used against him, just as it  _ always  _ is. Uncle would know he committed treason on  _ top _ of treason, and even  _ he  _ couldn’t ignore that. He would be forced to inform Father. 

Zuko chooses the music festival over life imprisonment or execution, but it’s honestly a closer call than it should be.

He nods, frowning down at his hands. “I’ll play a little longer.”

“Excellent!” Cheers Uncle, as if he hasn’t just blackmailed his nephew. “I will inform the crew. And Zuko…” 

Zuko glances up and the chittering caterpillar-monkey meets his gaze.

“It may seem strange, but to know the truest version of yourself, it sometimes takes a mask. Being seen as who you  _ are _ , rather than what others may expect. This evening is not a punishment. See it for the opportunity it presents.” 

The moment he leaves, Zuko blows a sour note and wallows in it. 

Forget the ship, he should have let the Yuyan archers finish him off.


	3. Chapter 3

The stage Uncle has procured can’t _really_ be called a stage. It’s barely an inch off of the ground, simple slats haphazardly nailed together, and no wider than Zuko's old bed. It would fit fewer than five people, he suspects, and even _they_ would have to be crammed together.

For now, this isn’t a problem. Despite Uncle’s assurance that the crew would be arriving soon, armed to the teeth with various instruments, Zuko remains alone. He’s tempted to run and take his chances, but he _had_ promised Uncle he’d play, so he remains seated instead, feeling dumb and no doubt _looking_ dumber. 

Since no one is around to hear him, he raises the horn again and plays a few notes. And since no one is around to notice his mistakes, he tries to play a slightly harder song, one he’d memorized years before but is now covered in cobwebs. It comes out a little flat- and he forgets a few spots- but it’s recognizable, he thinks, and so he tries again, and this time it almost sounds right. He begins his third attempt, confident he’ll perform it flawlessly this time. 

“Whoa, you play the Tsungi?!” Zuko glances up. The voice belongs to a child in a black and white mask decorated overzealously in glitter. It covers their eyes and hair, but doesn’t do much to obscure their broad grin. They practically leap from the food stand to the stage, and even when they’re right in front of him, they bounce excitedly in place. “I haven’t heard one of those in _years!”_

Zuko smiles slightly, amused. “You know how to play?”

“Do I know how to play!” They repeat loudly, as if the answer is an obvious and resounding _yes._ Then they consider. “No.”

“It’s pretty easy,” Zuko says, because it is. _He’d_ learned to play. “There aren’t any buttons or levers or strings, so it’s all about air-”

“ _I'm_ all about air!” The child says, bouncing some more. 

“-and mouth movements.”

“Don’t even _try_ to say you’re all about _those_ ,” says a new voice, following languidly at the heels of their younger companion. They lean down, reviewing Zuko’s horn behind their owl-shaped mask. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that a _Fire Nation_ instrument?” 

Zuko is ready to bristle- and maybe burn off his mask while he’s at it and say something intimidating like _I’m a Fire Nation Instrument!-_ but then the black-and-white-masked kid exclaims, “Yeah! Kuzon used to play one all the time! He was _so_ loud.”

“Being loud isn’t really the point,” Zuko says, rage deflating. This is a neutral port town, but he’s still a little surprised that children from warring nations could be so familiar. 

_...do you think we could have been friends?_

Zuko shakes away the stray thought and focuses on the brass beneath his fingers. “Anyone can be loud,” he continues. “You have to strike a balance.” 

“I’m _all_ about balance,” the kid assures him. “Can I try?”

Zuko hesitates, then shrugs and shifts over. It’s not like the crew is here yet, and he doubts Uncle would begrudge him a small break. He helps wrangle the instrument over the child’s narrow frame and cleans its lip. Just as he opens his mouth to give instructions, the kid says, 

“By the way, who are you?” 

Zuko blinks. “Who am I?”

“I don’t recognize you,” he explains. “And I’m-”

“All about spirits?” Guesses the owl-masked teen flatly.

“ _All about spirits,”_ agrees the child passionately, and Zuko understands.

“The mask?” He clarifies. 

“Yeah! I’m Hai Bai,” he explains, wrapping his hands around the metal. “The forest spirit. But I don’t think the mask looks much like a panda. More like…” He thinks. “Spilled ink and really shiny stones?”

Zuko frowns. “Then why did you buy it?”

Hai Bai shrugs. “I _like_ really shiny stones.” 

“I’m Wan Shi Tong,” says the older boy. 

“‘Knower of ten thousand things,’” Zuko recites, distantly remembering some mention of the spirit from Uncle.

“At _least,”_ brags Wan Shi Tong. 

“Please, you thought that was a cat-salmon,” scoffs a new voice.

She’s easy to recognize. “The Painted Lady.”

“You know it? I’ve never heard of her.” She cocks her head, the mask’s solemn expression at odds with the too-casual movement. It’s almost creepy. “Which are you?”

Zuko has no idea and it can’t even show on his face. “It, uh.” 

They all watch him. They might be judging; he can’t tell. 

“I don’t know,” he admits, blushing fiercely and feeling foolish. “I just picked one I liked.”

“Hey, me too!” Says Hai Bai. “I didn’t even know it _was_ Hai Bai until I’d put it on and they _told_ me so.” He points at the instrument. “So-?”

Zuko focuses. “Purse your lips.” 

The boy does. It almost manages to be too _much_ pursing. Zuko doubts the kid does anything in half measures, though, so he doesn’t comment.

“Now put them up against the mouthpiece and blow.”

The instrument wheezes.

“A little harder.”

It wheezes a little more.

“It’s not working,” he complains, sounding broken-hearted.

“You just have to practice,” assures the Painted Lady. “You of _all_ people know these things take time.” She notices the box behind the stage. “Are those more instruments?” 

“My ship is apparently putting on a concert,” Zuko explains in a grumble. He tries to sound exasperated enough to make up for the fact that they can’t see his rolling eyes.

“You don’t sound too happy about that,” notes the Painted Lady, catching on.

“It was a surprise,” he explains, “and I’m not a musician. I’m supposed to wait here until they finish resupplying.” He considers. “You can try out some instruments, if you want.” If there was any luck in the universe, they’d steal the box of instruments and run.

 _But Uncle_ , Zuko would say, _how could I capture the thieves when you told me not to leave the stage?_

Unfortunately, the Painted Lady just rifles through the box. “Oh, wow!” She exclaims, pulling out the two-stringed Southern fiddle. She holds it up to Wan Shi Tong. “An erhu! Gran Gran used to have one of these, remember? You took off the strings and tried to make your own fishing lures?”

“ _Succeeded_ in making my own fishing lures,” Wan Shi Tong corrects defensively. 

“The fish swam _off_ with all of them.”

“Exactly. I made them _too_ well, if anything. They were too tempting!”

“Can you play it or not?” Zuko demands. 

The Painted Lady glances back at him. If she’s irritated by his impatience, it doesn’t show on the cheap mask. “I can figure it out,” she decides, sitting on the edge of the stage.

Wan Shi Tong takes one look in the box and grabs the first thing he sees. “I’ll be rhythm,” he announces. “It will be a subtle but powerful performance.” 

“Do you know any songs you can teach us?” Hai Bai asks excitedly. 

Zuko considers. “I know a kid’s song on the horn.” He glances into the box. “How about you try the Paixiao?” 

Hai Bai obligingly switches from the horn to the pan flutes, playing a melody-free tune as the Painted Lady awkwardly plucks along. Wan Shi Tong waits until the end of the strange discordance before slamming his mallet against the gong. 

When the hum of its ring finally recedes, Hai Bai exclaims, “That was amazing!”

“You think so?” The Painted Lady asks, sounding genuinely delighted.

Zuko carefully stays silent. 

“It honestly didn’t sound that bad,” agrees the boy pretending to be Wan Shi Tong. 

The real Wan Shi Tong, Zuko thinks, would know better. 

\-----

After a few minutes of practice, they’ve inexplicably drawn a crowd. Thankful that no one he knows attends backwater spirit festivals, Zuko just continues to play, leading the impromptu band through a rendition of Brave Soldier Boy. 

When they finish, everyone applauds, calling out requests ranging from Fire Nation classics like Fire in the Great Divide to Earth Kingdom ballads like Secret Tunnel. 

Zuko picks his way through the melodies, figuring them out as he goes. The others follow his lead, shouting out compliments when he figures it out, laughing at themselves when they make obvious mistakes. 

It’s...not that terrible, actually.

\-----

The night ends more quickly than he might have liked. Uncle and the crew never showed, and so it’s just him and the novice musicians putting away instruments as the sky above shatters over and over in bright colors. 

“Okay,” admits Wan Shi Tong, “that’s pretty cool. Figures Firebenders thought up explosions as _entertainment_.”

“You like these, you should see the ones in the Fire Nation,” Zuko comments.

“Ugh, I bet I will,” he mutters in reply as he and his friends sit on the edge of the stage. 

Zuko joins them, staring up at the thunderous fireworks. 

“Wanna come with us to the Candle Lighting?” Asks the Painted Lady.

He falters, not sure whether he’s more surprised by the invitation or by his own inclination to say _yes._ He’s about to say _no_ , anyway, because he has to watch the _instruments,_ but then again...he played and the crew never showed. He waited long enough, didn’t he? “Sure,” he decides. 

They walk down the empty streets towards where tables are covered in candles. In the center of the courtyard, people are already lining up for the few present Firebenders to light their wicks. It’s a _long_ line.

Hai Bai sighs. “I wish I’d found a Firebending Master already. This is going to take _forever_.” 

Zuko blinks, surprised. He hadn’t realized the boy was a Firebender. He knew kids in the provinces acted differently, but _wow._ He considers Wan Shi Tong again, reassessing him. As much disdain as he seemed to hold for the Fire Nation, he was also clearly friends with a Firebender. 

“Can’t we just light them on one of the torches?” Asks the teen, crossing his arms. 

The Painted Lady shakes her head. “No, you heard the mask vendor. It’s _traditional_. You need to get _living_ fire from a Firebender, and then you have prosperity for the rest of the year.” 

“I have enough prosperity,” replies Wan Shi Tong, crossing his arms. “They call me Mr. Good Luck. And Mr. Good Luck doesn’t feel like waiting in line for an hour for something he could make out of spark rocks. I don’t even get the _point_ of this stupid-"

“No cheating,” Hai Bai insists, catching him by the wrist as he begins to move towards the torches. “If there really are spirits around here, I want to stay on their good side.”

“... _I_ could light them,” Zuko offers. 

They turn back at him. “...you’re a Firebender?” Asks the Painted Lady, sounding uneasy.

Zuko frowns. They were fine with Hai Bai. “Yes,” he says, tapping up his chin. He’s not _ashamed_ of being a Firebender. He hadn’t expected it to- to mess up the night, but he doesn’t care, anyway. He hadn’t even _wanted_ to come-

“That’s amazing!” Hai Bai cheers. “Will you light my candle? Will you show me _how_ to light my candle?”

“Wait,” Wan Shi Tong orders, catching the boy in a side-armed tackle. The mask stares Zuko down. He’s never been stared down by an owl before, and he doesn’t think he likes it. “...Are you evil?”

“...no?”

“Okay.” He lets go of the boy. “Can you light mine, too?”

He does. He lights all of theirs, and talks Hai Bai through breathing with his flame, not willing to teach him anything more dangerous. “Just work on that when you meditate,” he suggests, “until you can find your Master.” 

“Do you think _you_ could be my Master?” Asks Hai Bai, bouncing in place again. “You could travel with us!”

“Stop inviting potentially-evil Firebenders to join our group,” Wan Shi Tong chastises without any real heat.

“I’m sure he has somewhere to be,” adds the Painted Lady. 

“She’s right,” Zuko confirms, watching the boy's shoulders slope downward with disappointment. “I have a mission to fulfill. I don’t have time to be anybody’s Master right now.”

“But later, maybe?”

“...later, maybe,” he accepts, almost smiling. He knows he’ll never see this boy again, but the idea of teaching him, of laughing with people his own age, is...it’s a happy one, even if it’s not a realistic one. They walk slowly back to the stage, careful with their candles, and sit to finish watching the fireworks. When they finish, explains the Painted Lady, the candles and stars will be the only source of light for miles. And then, one by one, people will blow out the fire as they ask the spirits for blessings in the coming year. 

As the fireworks begin to die down, the world around them darkens, the strung-up lanterns dimming as the flames within are bent to embers. Soon, the town is lit only by silver starlight and the burning yellow pinpricks of candlelight. 

“I’m going to wish for more festival food,” decides Wan Shi Tong in the dense silence.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” doubts the Painted Lady, tone hushed.

“We’ll see,” answers the teen, and his candlelight vanishes. “Bad news, guys, this whole thing is a _racket._ ”

The Painted Lady and Hai Bai hush him in unison and, surprisingly, he stays quiet.

The world is dark and still and _heavy,_ and Zuko wonders, quietly, if maybe there _are_ spirits here.

Why not, he decides, and he closes his eyes.

 _I need to find the Avatar_ , he informs whoever might be listening. _I need to fulfill my destiny._

He blows.

When he opens his eyes again, there are no candles left. As his eyes adjust, he turns to the others. Hai Bai yawns, and Zuko wonders if he normally has a bedtime. 

“We should get going,” says the Painted Lady. “Our... _ship_ is pretty far.” Her mask seems friendlier in the dark. “Thank you for letting us play with you.” 

He hesitates, then decides, “You should take the instruments.” 

“Won’t your people get mad?” Wan Shi Tong asks, surprised.

Zuko shrugs. The crew had never shown up. “It's their own fault.” 

Hai Bai grins. “That’s amazing! Thank you so much!” He rifles excitedly through the box for his pan flute. He plays a few notes; they sound much too jolly for the dark town. “I can’t wait to show-”

“-Grandpa,” interrupts Wan Shi Tong.

Zuko knows Wan Shi Tong harbors some concerns about him, but he frankly cares very little about fugitives who aren’t involved with the Avatar. “I’m sure 'Grandpa' will _love_ it,” he assures, imbuing the phrase with as much obvious skepticism as he can. 

The Painted Lady retrieves the two-stringed fiddle with relish. “Thank you,” she says. “I haven’t seen a working one of these in a long time.” 

“It’s not a big deal,” Zuko says to keep from blushing. “None of us know how to play it anyway.”

“I’ll have to teach you,” she says, “as soon as I figure it out.”

“Until next time,” Wan Shi Tong agrees, picking up the gong. “Good meeting you, Nameless Spirit. You’re not all that terrible for a Firebender. _Pretty_ bad, but not _terrible._ ”

“Good meeting you, cat salmon,” Zuko replies, unimpressed.

Hai Bai turns to him with a formal bow. Zuko returns it, surprised. It’s been a long time since someone treated him with this much respect, crew members _included._ “Thank you,” says the boy.

“It’s just a flute-” Zuko dismisses.

“No, no. It’s-” Hai Bai falters. “It’s been harder than I expected trying to be- friends with certain people. I was starting to think it might be _impossible._ Thank you for proving otherwise.” 

Zuko is grateful for his mask, and the lack of _light_ , for hiding his blush. “Anyone that doesn’t want to be friends with you is a moron,” he decides gruffly, crossing his arms. “Just remember: Firebending comes from the breath, not the muscles. Work on your breathing.” 

Hai Bai grins. “I will. See you next time!” 

“Sure,” Zuko agrees, watching him run off into the dark after his friends. “Next time.”

\----

When he returns to the ship, there's a fire on the deck. The crew is playing something fast and frenzied. Uncle is dancing with a boa-goat masked woman. 

Zuko watches, amused, as the woman dips Uncle low, whispering something in his ear that has him red-faced. As she spins him out, Uncle dizzily greets Zuko.

“Prince Zuko!” he exclaims, almost steady. “I enjoyed your concert this evening.” 

“You went?” Zuko asks, surprised. “I didn’t see you.”

“You seemed as if you were having a good time,” Uncle replies, as his date begins dancing with Cook, “and I did not wish to interrupt. Would you like to join us?”

Zuko looks over his shoulder towards the bright fire, to the dancing and singing crewmembers, to the Portmaster releasing peals of laughter.

...why not?

Zuko takes his horn from the box, sits on the ground beside his lieutenant, and tries to match the beat of the music around him. Each crewmember has some new style to bring, borrowing from whatever distant corners of the earth they’d sailed, and it all melds together like smoke. They jump between notes that shouldn’t match and styles that shouldn’t mesh. As he joins them, loud and brash, Uncle rejoins his dancing partner, and they swing each other around in a dance that is anything but traditional. He experiments beyond what he’d once memorized, shedding old rules he didn’t remember remembering. The result is unlike anything he’s ever played. It’s loud and happy and sad and angry and _fun._ The music probably shouldn’t sound good, and it probably _wouldn’t_ to Father or his tutors, but Zuko rather likes it. 

Some of the songs they play that night are patriotic classics, but the majority are improvised right on the spot. The most popular song by far spends much of its time mocking Zhao’s muttonchops. It would probably be some manner of treason if this ship weren’t its own nebulous territory beyond the soil of the Fire Nation. 

It’s somehow closer to dawn than dusk when they finally decide to pack up and leave the port. Feeling more rested than he has in days, Zuko rests his elbows on the ship's railing and watches civilization disappear to a thin, foggy horizon. 

“You are quite the talent,” says Uncle, suddenly beside him, “with the Tsungi horn.” He hands Zuko a steaming cup of tea, warm as sunrise.

Zuko takes a sip. Jasmine, of course. “It’s been a long time,” he admits.

“One would not know by listening.” Uncle leans against the railing beside him, eyes distant. “I enjoyed hearing the new music you created. It was unique. Much like you, Nephew.” 

“Is that a compliment?” Zuko wonders wryly. 

“Of course,” Uncle assures, smiling. “The world is in desperate need for such things. And it was _good_ to see you happy." He pauses, voice softer as he adds, "I only want what is best for you, Zuko.” 

“...I know.”

“Should I know where you were last night?”

“With you,” Zuko answers, pulling back from the railing. He turns to his Uncle. “I think I’m going to go get some rest, but… I enjoyed music night very much, Uncle. Thank you for inviting me.”

Uncle closes his eyes and smiles like a basking dragon. “Any time, Nephew.” 


End file.
